


To Have and To Hold

by ladyblahblah



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Bonding, Intoxication, Las Vegas, M/M, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The atmosphere and the alcohol is working its magic.  There’s not a soul among them that hadn’t shed the stress and tension of their latest mission an hour into their foray into historic Las Vegas. </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Have and To Hold

**Author's Note:**

> So, some people requested a sequel to What Happens in Vegas . . . Well, You Know the Rest. I couldn't manage that, but how about a prequel? Drunkenness and sadly-forgotten smexing in 21st century Las Vegas; what more could you ask for? Ah, one of my own personal kinks sort of took over at one point. I'd apologize, but I'm not really sorry. A little bit cracky, a little bit porny. Well . . . a lot. On both of those. Hey, it's Vegas; what're you gonna do?

**Title:** To Have and To Hold  
 **Author:** [](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/profile)[**ladyblahblah**](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/)    
 **Fandom:** Star Trek Reboot  
 **Pairing:** Spock/Kirk  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** You can tell I don't own anything, because nothing even remotely like this happened in the movie.  A travesty, that.  
 **A/N:** So, some of you requested a sequel to _What Happens in Vegas . . . Well, You Know the Rest_.  I couldn't manage that, but how about a prequel?  Drunkenness and sadly-forgotten smexing in 21st century Las Vegas; what more could you ask for?  Ah, one of my own personal kinks sort of took over at one point.  I'd apologize, but I'm not really sorry.  A little bit cracky, a little bit porny.  Well . . . a lot.  On both of those.  Hey, it's Vegas; what're you gonna do?  
 **Summary:** _The atmosphere and the alcohol is working its magic.  There’s not a soul among them that hadn’t shed the stress and tension of their latest mission an hour into their foray into historic Las Vegas._

 

 

Jim is drunk, well on his way to smashed, and he can’t stop laughing.

Really, though, he can’t be expected to help it.  Chekov has discovered the slot machines and is sitting in front of one of the ones that gives out nickels, utterly mesmerized by the display.  Counting cards; calculating probable trajectories of the dice based on the speed and force and angle at which they’re thrown; weighing odds and probabilities; these are all things that the kid does automatically, as natural to him as breathing and as impossible for him to stop.  But the slot machines, he says, are cheat-proof unless he starts taking the thing apart right there on the casino floor.  They’re totally, utterly random, and so he can sit there and feed in the shiny silver coins to his heart’s content without feeling guilty.

Jim suspects his stubborn refusal to move has more to do with the flashing lights and clanging bells and whistles, and maybe a little bit with the litter of empty glasses sitting by his elbow.

And Spock can freaking bite him, he thinks smugly, because unscheduled or no this shore leave is the best idea ever.  The _Enterprise_ is safely in orbit, there are no bloodthirsty Klingons or mentally unbalanced Romulans anywhere in the vicinity, and so long as you’re gambling the casinos serve free drinks.

He repeats that last bit to himself, just to reassure himself that it’s real: there are _free drinks_.

The atmosphere and the alcohol is working its magic.  There’s not a soul among them that hadn’t shed the stress and tension of their latest mission an hour into their foray into historic Las Vegas. 

Sulu had been talking with Chekov for a time, involved in what Jim will never admit to realizing is an excited conversation about the possibilities of retro-fitting an old replicator to produce something similar to the slot machines they’re all playing.  Now, however, he’s migrated to the bar and stands flirting with one of the waitresses who’s trying to convince herself that she’s not interested.

McCoy is still grumbling, but Jim knows him well enough to know that being irritable is a recreational activity for Bones.  He’s nursing his whiskey and pretending he doesn’t see the speculative looks Uhura and Christine are sending his way.

Spock . . . Spock is on his fifth chocolate martini, and Jim will love Uhura until his dying day for thinking of _that_ solution.  The Vulcan had stopped trying to convince them how illogical the entire trip was after his first drink.  After three the disapproving tilt of his eyebrows had relaxed.  Now he’s draining the last drops of his latest and the waitress is already on her way back with the next, though she’s not fast enough to keep Spock from licking away the chocolate sauce drizzled around the rim of the glass.

And well.  Fuck.  Jim has to shift on his stool, suddenly burdened with the predictable consequence of such a display.  He empties his own drink and regards the machine in front of him.

“Captain?”  Spock’s voice, closer than Jim had anticipated, makes him jump.  He looks over to find his First Officer leaning in towards him, something almost like a concerned expression on his face.  “You seem distracted from your diversion.  Is something wrong?”

“Um.  No, everything’s . . . actually, yeah.”  A frown suddenly creases Jim’s face.  “A couple of things, actually, and let’s start with how even when you’re hammered you can’t just use my name.”

An eyebrow lifts and is quickly followed by its twin, as though the chocolate in Spock’s system has tied them both together.  “Hammered?”  The waitress appears with another drink, and in Spock’s eagerness to take it a good portion is lost over the side of the glass.  Jim is laughing again, after that; there’s no way he can help himself.

“Yeah, hammered.  You know what, nevermind.  There was something else, though.”

Spock licks the side of his hand where the drink has spilled.  “What was it?” he asks.

Except he doesn’t; he couldn’t have, because really, he couldn’t _possibly_ have expected Jim to concentrate on anything else after seeing that.  He knows about Vulcan hands, damn it, and Spock has just practically _groped_ himself right in front of him.  Jim is torn between wanting to cry at the unfairness of it all and coming in his pants.

He’s been down this road already, he reminds himself.  Over the past several months he’s practically thrown himself at Spock at every opportunity.  Well, in a Vulcan sort of way he has.  He’s stopped restraining his habit of touching people when he talks, even when it means a brush of skin-to-skin contact.  Formality got chucked out the window almost first thing, and it’s not uncommon for him to answer the door shirtless when he knows Spock’s coming over.  He even went so far as to suggest that their weekly chess games be relocated to their quarters, for heaven’s sake.  And through it all, not a whisper of interest from Spock.

So . . . yeah, Jim still finds him attractive.  He’s moving on, not dead.  But he’s not going to keep pursuing something that’s so obviously hopeless; he isn’t a masochist.  Well.  There was that one time, but there were extenuating circumstances of that chick being _really_ hot.

“Captain?”  Spock’s voice is a low rumble through the haze of alcohol fogging his brain, and Jim struggles to focus.  “What is troubling you?” he asks again.  Jim blinks.

“I don’t remember.”

“Couldn’t have been all that important then, right?” McCoy speaks up from his other side.  Behind him, Christine and Uhura are engaged in a whispered conversation, their eyes locked on the doctor.  Jim snickers, then frowns.

“No, I mean what’s wrong is that I can’t remember something.  Something we were supposed to do.  Help me out here, guys.  We showed up, we gambled, we drank.  We drank some more.”  There’s a chorus of cheers and lifted glasses at that, and he salutes back with his own.  “Now what else is traditional on a trip to Vegas?”

“Picking up a prostitute?” Uhura smirks, though it’s ruined by a giggle when Christine pokes her in the side.

“The Captain wouldn’t,” Chris protests, though her hearty defense is somewhat undone by the suddenly unsure look that she turns on Jim.

“Of course I wouldn’t!” he practically yells, though he couldn’t hold on to his own indignation for more than a few seconds without bursting out laughing again.

“He’s gonna tell you he’s too pretty to have to pay,” McCoy snorts, and Jim grins at him.

“Damn right.”  Jim’s chuckles die down.  “Where was I?”

“You were postulating that there was an activity traditional to the visiting of this city that we had yet to partake in.”

Jim turns to stare at him, because _damn_ , that’s a hell of a vocabulary on a guy who was having trouble sitting up straight.  And that shouldn’t be enough to turn him on, but tell that to his libido.  Uhura doesn’t seem to be having a similar problem, however, if her annoyed groan is any indication.

“Honestly, Spock, do you end sentences in prepositions just to annoy me?”  She turns to Christine.  “You see why we had to break up?”

Spock stiffens in indignation.  “Nyota, I hardly think that’s why—”

“Oh, leave her alone, Spock,” Christine chides him, running a comforting hand over Uhura’s back.  “We all have our kinks.”

“We’re getting off-topic again,” Jim complains.  He takes a moment to turn his best smile on the waitress who brings him another drink.  “Come on, people, there’s gotta be something we’re forgetting to do.”

“You’re certain it’s not prostitution, Keptin?” Chekov asks, never taking his eyes from the screen in front of him.

“Yes, I’m _certain_ it’s not prostitution.  It’s something legal.”  He snaps his fingers as realization hits.  “Legal!  That’s it.”  He looks around at his crew, smiling hugely.  “Someone’s gotta get married.”

There’s a moment of silence—or as close to silence as it’s possible to get in a 21st century casino on the Las Vegas strip—where they all look at him as if he’s completely lost his mind.  McCoy is the first to recover.

“You’re kidding,” he says flatly, and it’s not a question so much as a command.  “There’s no way you could possibly be anything even resembling serious with that suggestion.”

“Can’t I?  Come on.”  His grin, if anything, grows wider, and he spreads his hands.  “What happens in the 21st century stays in the 21st century.”

There’s a collective groan at that.  “How long have you been saving that one up?” McCoy demands.

“Since we beamed down.  It’s harmless, you know.  Like an experiment in cultural exchange.”

“And just who did you have in mind for this _cultural exchange_ , smartass?”

“Oh, it could be any of us.”  He glances at Uhura, but decides he rather likes his balls just as they are, attached and intact.  “How about you and Chris?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” McCoy snaps at him, turning red.  “Christine and I aren’t getting married.  _No one’s_ getting married.” 

Uhura, meanwhile, is looking at him like he might not have saved his anatomy after all.  “How about me and Spock?” she counters.  “I mean, if it can be _anyone_.”

“Ah . . .”  There’s something sick churning in his stomach, and he thinks absently that maybe he shouldn’t have had that last drink after all.  “I didn’t think you two were still . . . um . . .”

She rolls her eyes, appearing to take pity on him.  “We’re not.  My point is, you can’t just take any two random people and make them—”

“Vhat about ze Keptin and Mr. Spock?”

All eyes turn to Chekov, who has finally turned away from his machine.  He’s looking back in wide-eyed innocence; a little too wide-eyed, Jim thinks cynically, for it to be entirely genuine.  Everyone else is starting to grin, though, and McCoy slaps a hand against his thigh as he rises.

“Now there’s an actual decent idea.  Anyone have an idea where the closest chapel is?”

“There was one in the last casino we hit,” Uhura offers, eyes sparkling.

“Wait.  Wait.  Just hold on a minute.”  Jim rises, not entirely steady on his feet but not at fall-down drunk yet.  “What happened to ‘you can’t just take any two random people’ and ‘no one’s getting married’, huh?”

“What’s the matter, Jim?  Afraid to put your money where your mouth is?” McCoy demands, and the smile on his face is downright evil.

“No, it’s not . . .”  There’s a valid argument for him here somewhere, if he could just think of it.  “This isn’t just me, you know.  I mean, this sort of spur-of-the-moment thing, does that really sound like Spock to you?”

“I believe that I am capable of speaking for myself.”  Spock rises to his feet, as well.

“Right, Spock,” Jim nods.  “You tell ‘em.”

“I believe that, as an experiment in cultural anthropology, the suggestion has merit.  Unless you have objections yourself, Captain?”

Jim has clearly had way, _way_ too much to drink, because it sounds an awful lot like Spock just proposed to him.  He waits for someone to say something, anything that will give him a clue as to what’s actually going on.  But everyone just stares at him, all of them smiling to one degree or another, until finally he laughs and shrugs.

“Well, hell, Spock.  Let’s get hitched.”

They retrieve Sulu, and his initial irritation at being interrupted fades immediately when they explain where they’re going and why.  He, Chekov and Uhura huddle together over a PADD as they stumble their way to the chapel.  History lessons are niggling at the backs of their minds now, and they take a moment to make sure that this _is_ legal, after all.  But they’re in the clear; it’s 2015 and the fact that he and Spock are both male isn’t a worry.  Nor, in this city, is the fact that Spock has pointed ears and green-tinged skin.  They pass at least half a dozen people who look stranger than he does in the two blocks it takes them to reach their destination.

Jim doesn’t know what the joke here is, but that doesn’t stop him from playing along.  He has another drink—really, you have to love any place that serves cocktails in its wedding chapels—and laughs uproariously when Sulu and Chekov present them with a red foil box of chocolates and wishes of matrimonial joy.  Whatever game they’re all playing they seem to be having fun, and he’s impressed enough that they’ve somehow gotten Spock to go along with it that he wouldn’t dream of calling it off now. 

Besides, he thinks, he has a game of his own to play.  Because while there’s no doubt in his mind that someone’s gonna stop this before they actually go through with it, he wonders just how far he can push Spock in the meantime.

It’s the only chance he’ll have to do this, he knows.  The only time he’ll have this kind of excuse to fall back on, everything explained away by alcohol and whatever collective madness is sweeping them all along.

So he plays it up, draping himself against Spock as though he needs the other man to stay on his feet.  The woman behind the desk is trying to cover her boredom with a thin layer of excitement, but when she sees Jim plastered to Spock her eyes light up just the slightest bit.  Jim smiles at her for a moment before turning his attention back to hot skin and rigid muscles and an intriguingly pointed ear right in front of his eyes.  McCoy is handling the arrangements with his usual Southern charm, and Jim trusts him to see to everything.  He devotes himself meanwhile to testing the limits of Spock’s endurance, rubbing against his shoulder and letting one hand wander up to toy with the short hairs at the nape of Spock’s neck.

“Will you need to book a room, as well?” the woman asks.  “We’re running a special right now.”

“That will not be necessary,” Spock says from between gritted teeth as Jim’s fingers find the point of that intriguing ear.  “We have sufficient accommodations.”

“Nuh-uh.”  That evil grin still hasn’t left McCoy’s face.  “Oh, no.  Those are fine for the rest of us, but this is your special night, boys.”  He slaps Spock’s free shoulder.  “You deserve something nice, and this is on me.”

“Need any help with that, Doc?” Sulu asks.

“Nope.  Won big on Keno at the Aladdin, and I can’t think of a single thing I’d rather spend this money on.”

The others laugh, and Spock seems about to protest again.  Jim hushes him with a shake of his head.

“It’s no use arguing with him when he’s like this; it’ll just make him dig in his heels even more.  Besides, it sounds like a pretty good idea.  A hotel room, just for the two of us.”  He runs two fingers down the side of Spock’s neck and nearly moans at the shiver that the other man can’t quite repress.  At the back of his mind Jim is aware that he’s beginning to lose track of the game, losing himself in touching Spock for the sheer pleasure of it, but that thought seems far away and unimportant.  “God, the things I’m gonna do to you,” he whispers, urged on by the warm pulse of alcohol in his blood.  “I can’t wait to get you naked, get my mouth on you.  I’m great at sucking cock, you know.  Get you on top of me, inside me.”  He watches, fascinated, as the tips of Spock’s ears take on a distinct green tinge.  “I’ll bet you’re a beast in bed.  The quiet ones always are.”

Spock turns to face him then, one eyebrow raised dangerously.  Jim doesn’t know how a freaking _eyebrow_ can be dangerous, but Spock manages it.

“If you do not desist,” he says quietly, hot eyes locked on Jim’s, “you will not be allowed to speak at all when we reach our room.”

And then Jim’s _beaming_ , because he might not know why Spock’s decided to play along but it’s still fantastic that he has.  “You want me to just think it at you, then?”  He winks.  “Kinky.”

The heat in Spock’s eyes flares then, rises until Jim can practically see the flames raging there.  There’s a growl, and Jim finally realizes that it’s arousal that he’s seeing just in time to be pulled in and devoured.

Jim has been kissed, and been _kissed_ , but nothing in his life has prepared him for this.  It’s like being consumed, swallowed whole by hunger and need and _oh god, yes_.  Spock’s arms around him are like steel bands, pressing him so close that Jim wonders that they don’t simply melt into each other.  And he’s kissing back with everything he has, losing himself in the taste of chocolate on Spock’s tongue and the silk of his hair between his fingers and the sheer, overwhelming heat of him.

Images flit quickly through Jim’s mind: kneeling in front of Spock.  Pinned against the wall, Spock’s body hard and hot behind him.  Spock holding him down as he rides him hard and fast.  Flat on his back with his legs around Spock’s ears and begging to be fucked harder, deeper, _more_.  He’s wondering if it’s really possible to _think_ a Vulcan off when Spock groans helplessly and bucks his hips against Jim’s.  Hot, strong hands slide under his shirt and begin trying to work their way down the back of his jeans.

Seems like a good possibility, then.

He’s gearing up for another mental assault when something cold and wet hits the side of his face.  They pull apart, spluttering, to see Sulu standing there with a sheepish smile on his face and an empty glass in his hand.

“Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t particularly sound it.  “We tried just calling your names, but that got old after about five or six times.”

“There _are_ public decency laws,” Chekov adds primly.  “Ve looked zem up.”

“Yeah, save it for the wedding night.”  McCoy is smirking as they disentangle from each other.  “C’mon, lovebirds.”  He jerks a head towards the doors leading to the chapel proper.  “You’re up.”

Jim isn't entirely clear on the details that lead to him standing at the altar next to Spock, listening to a dour-faced man recite his antiquated ritual.

He remembers kissing Spock.  Jim's really clear on that part, Spock's tongue in his mouth and his hands working their way down the back of his pants. The realization that yeah, he actually can think him off, and Jim's tempted to try that again until Bones elbows him in the side. Hard.

Right. He remembers Sulu handing them both a towel, and McCoy handing him a bottle of scotch and saying something about "something old". But now they're standing there and Jim can't quite remember how they got from Point A to Point B.

The words of the ceremony are getting through now that they seem to be actively directed at him. He gets a bit hung up on the 'having and holding' part as a significant portion of his anatomy lets out a raucous cheer at the idea. But there's more, and for lack of anything better to do Jim figures he might as well pay attention.

For better or worse goes without saying. How much worse could it get after the destruction of an entire planet? How much better than their own starship, the pride of the 'Fleet and the chance to map out all that great and glorious unknown?

For richer, for poorer. That one's a little tougher. Jim has known what it is to lack for money, to be so desperate just for the chance to eat that you're willing to do almost anything. But he thinks, maybe, with Spock there, they'd find a way out if it came to that again. Money would be the least of their concerns between the intelligence and determination and sheer craftiness that they have pooled between them. So that one gets a pass, too.

In sickness and in health; this one sends horrible chills racing up and down Jim's spine. His memories are entirely too clear here, of Spock lying pale and still in Sickbay. Assurances that it's a healing trance, that he's going to be fine, fall on deaf ears and he resents every minute he's on the bridge, every second that forces him to be away from where he's meant to be. He doesn't understand the question here, because if Spock is sick where the hell else is he going to be but by his side?

To love and to cherish. A stutter in his mental track there. Something in him, some small, neglected, child-shaped part rebels at this. It's too much to ask, for him to make himself so vulnerable. To admit that he loves, that he cherishes. That he needs. It's too big, too scary, a dizzying precipice that they're all expecting him to fling himself over. And that decides him, because it's been years and lifetimes ago since Jim Kirk looked before he leaped.

"Hell yeah, I do," he grins when he's asked for his answer. "Every damn day."

He has to admit, as his new husband pulls him in and kisses him through a chocolate, alcoholic haze: his friends know how to throw one hell of a bachelor party.

The details fuzz again as they make their way out of the chapel.  All he can focus on is the heat of Spock beside him and the weight of the ring on his finger.  He can’t seem to stop staring at it, and if he were slightly less drunk he might have been embarrassed by how much the sight and feel of it is turning him on.  He wants to feel it pressed against Spock’s skin, to feel the same smooth coolness sliding over his own body, reminding them both that they’ve been claimed, if only for tonight.

He’s vaguely aware of the flurry of activity around them as their friends bustle them into an elevator and wave goodbye.  The box of chocolates is very nearly empty, and the bottle of whiskey is getting there, both of which are circumstances in which Jim suspects he and Spock had a hand.  There’s a hallway carpeted in a pattern that makes Jim’s eyes hurt, and a door, and Spock fumbling with some strange flat bit of plastic until the thing opens and they stumble inside.

It’s a smallish room— _intimate_ , Jim’s brain supplies, then immediately shies away from the word and all of its myriad implications—decorated mostly in reds and pinks and blacks.  He tries to ignore the décor as he deposits his bottle on a table near the bed.  He’s only moderately successful, and he can’t help but notice while the bed is not actually heart-shaped, thank god, it’s still covered in what are almost unquestionably satin sheets.  His hindbrain helpfully encourages him to investigate by rolling around naked on said sheets, preferably with a warm Vulcan body to keep him entertained.

He’s turning to suggest just that in what he’s certain would have been an irresistibly charming manner when he finds himself suddenly smothered in said Vulcan.  Not that he’s complaining; no, he most decidedly is not, and not just because Spock’s tongue is currently occupying his mouth.  Jim chases the flavor of chocolate, wrapping his own tongue around the invading one and sucking it deeper, delighted when Spock groans and tugs him closer.

Spock is hard against him, and it’s driving Jim crazy.  His hips start to move of their own volition, grinding in tight circles while Spock’s hands tear blindly at their clothes.  Skin meets skin, and Jim is somehow surprised by the heat of it.  Spock’s hands, his mouth sliding over his skin.  He can feel the scrape of the ring on Spock’s finger and it sends shivers cascading down his spine.  Jim runs his own down the edge of one of Spock’s ears, and is rewarded with a desperate moan and teeth sinking hard into his shoulder.

Spock’s loss of control is easily the most amazingly erotic thing that Jim has ever experienced.  He wants more, wants to see Spock lose himself entirely, and is trying to work out how to manage that when Spock breaks away.  Jim stands there, half-naked and panting, and watches as his friend—husband, _husband_ , they’re married he’s married Spock oh god—makes a visible effort to rein himself in.  Damn touch-telepath.

But no, this won’t do at all, and Jim’s not having it.  He closes the gap between them again and pulls Spock into another mind-shattering kiss.  His fingers fumble as he works at the fly of Spock’s trousers, distracted each time he brushes against the bulge there and Spock bucks helplessly towards him.

“Want you so much.”  The words are out of his mouth before he knows it, breathed against Spock’s lips as he finally declares victory over the button.  “Want this.”

“Captain,” Spock answers in what isn’t—quite—a whimper, and Jim bites down hard on his lower lip.

“If you can’t manage to call me by my first goddamn name, I swear I’ll toss you out of here on your pointed ears.”  His hand manages to snake past the elastic band on Spock’s trousers and grip the hard, hot flesh beneath.

“ _Jim_ ,” Spock groans, and Jim hides a smirk against his jaw.

“Much better.”

And then Jim is sinking to his knees, working the last of Spock’s clothing down his legs as he goes.  He takes a moment to take in the sight of his lover’s— _husband’s, husband’s, husband’s_ —erection, swollen green and heavy, just a moment to run his eyes over the second ridge and the precome gathering at the tip.  Just a moment before his patience snaps and he has to lean forward, has to taste, has to feel it against his tongue.

Jim hadn’t been exaggerating his ability earlier.  He’s used to people staring at his mouth, visibly wondering just what his lips might be capable of.  Few things delight him as much as the looks on their faces when they realize that, whatever they had imagined, the reality was infinitely better.  But it has never felt so vitally important to prove that before, to wring as many desperate, needy sounds from his partner as possible. 

Jim applies himself now with the same single-minded intensity that he gives to anything truly important.  As he swallows Spock deep he feels fingers tangle in his hair, alternately stroking and tugging, and he hums in delight.  And yes, okay, there are obviously some good things about sex with a telepath.  He lets himself dwell on his own enjoyment, the way his own arousal is building with every swipe of his tongue, every pull of his lips.  Spock’s breathing has already grown heavy, and his hips are twitching in a way that Jim’s experience tells him signifies an impending loss of control.

Spock’s fingers abruptly tighten in his hair, pulling him up and away.  Jim can’t help the little noise of protest that catches in his throat, but it quickly changes to alarm when Spock tosses him—literally _tosses_ him—onto the bed.  He’s there with him a moment later, and the heat of his body has Jim sweating immediately.

“I would greatly appreciate it,” Spock growls, and okay, Jim has never been all that turned on by dominance before, but that was _hot_ , “if you would refrain from thinking of past conquests.”

“I wasn’t exactly—”  He breaks off on an inarticulate noise as Spock’s hand squeezes, hot and strong, at the bulge in Jim’s pants.  “Okay.  Sorry.  Naked now, please.”

“Yes,” Spock moans, and then neither of them speak at all until they’re both completely bare and Jim has three of Spock’s fingers in his mouth.  “You are . . . _Jim_. . .”  Spock closes his eyes for a moment as Jim slips the tip of his tongue beneath Spock’s ring.  “You are . . . aroused,” he rasps at last.  “By our rings.”

“Mmmm.”  Jim is reluctant to give up Spock’s fingers, but he has to in order to nibble at his knuckles.  “I like being able to see that you’re mine.  Like it that _everyone_ can see.”  His laugh ghosts his breath over Spock’s damp skin, and the Vulcan’s hips buck sharply in response.  “James T. Kirk has a marriage kink.  Go figure.”

Spock pulls his hand away and lifts an eyebrow.  “Kink?”

Jim is about to answer when Spock slips one spit-slicked finger inside of him, and everything goes white and fuzzy.

“Makes it . . . _nnnngghhh_. . . makes it better,” he pants when he can speak again.  Spock adds another finger, and Jim’s hands fist in the cool satin beneath him.  “ _Fuck_ , yes . . . makes me want you even more.”

“I see.”  Spock sounds as cool and collected as ever, but the way his body is trembling assures Jim that he’s not so unaffected as he’d like to appear.  “In that case, it seems that we share a similar ‘kink’.”  He peels Jim’s left hand away from the sheets and brings it to his mouth, running his tongue over the skin on either side of the cheap gold ring.  “I, too, enjoy having visible proof that I have claimed you.”

“You won’t.”  Jim doesn’t know where the words are coming from.  “You’re gonna—oh, _fuck_ —gonna regret this in the morning.  When you sober up.  God, Spock, _please_ , don’t stop.”

“I have no intention of stopping.”  Spock bites down, hard enough that Jim knows there’s going to be a mark.  “And I will not regret this.”

“Yeah you will.  I’m t-taking advantage,” he stutters out when Spock does something clever and evil and _fucking fantastic_ with his fingers.

“I see.  There is, however, a flaw in your argument.”  Jim makes a sort of questioning, whimpering noise.  It’s the best he can do with Spock’s fingers slowly fucking him open like this.  Hot breath bathes his ear as Spock moves to suck firmly on the lobe.  “Perhaps,” he rumbles out, “I wish to be taken advantage of.”

Jim goes still for a moment before a helpless shudder rocks him from head to toe.  “ _God_ , Spock, you can’t just . . . just say stuff like that.  Not when you’ve got your fingers buried in my ass.”  He reaches up and yanks Spock down for a kiss.  It’s sloppy and wet and he can’t seem to get his lips and tongue to coordinate; it’s perfect.  “Now.  Spock, quit fucking teasing me and just fuck me.  Want you inside me.”

Spock buries his face in the juncture between Jim’s neck and shoulder.  “I do not believe that saliva will provide adequate lubrication.  I do not wish to hurt you.”

“Fuck,” Jim moans.  And then a memory slowly surfaces, of Uhura handing something to him with a grin and a _Use it and for the love of god, don’t think of us_.  “Pocket.  Pants pocket, I have—”  Spock does that thing with his fingers again and Jim forgets how to make words, but Spock is already reaching for the discarded clothing.

Jim fucking _loves_ telepaths.

One of those inconvenient jumps in his memory happens.  The next thing he knows his legs are wrapped around Spock’s waist as he leans over him, eyes frighteningly intense.  Then Spock is pushing forward, driving the breath from Jim’s lungs and the thought from his head, and there is only heat and pressure and Spock’s lips trembling open and Jim has to kiss him again, he _has_ to.  It’s been a long time, and there’s more pain than he remembers, but he savors the burn every bit as much as the wonderful feeling of fullness.  Proof, he thinks indistinctly, that this is really happening.

“I meant them,” he says, and he can’t look at Spock anymore.  He buries his face in a smooth shoulder and does his best to simply breathe as Spock begins to move.  “My vows.  I meant them.”

Spock’s hands tighten on his hips.  “I know.”

“Wanted you for so long.”

“Yes.”  Spock angles his hips, and suddenly everything inside of Jim lights up.  “As I have wanted you.  Longed for you.”

The emotion in Spock’s confession hits Jim as hard as the things that Spock is doing to his body.  “You have me now.”  His arms wrap around his husband, pulling him closer.  “’Til death do us part.”  He laughs then, helpless.  “Didn’t really like that part much.”

“Jim.”  Spock’s head lifts, and their eyes meet.  Sweat is just beginning to cling to Spock’s skin.  “Am I yours?”

“Yes.  Yes.”  Jim fumbles until he manages to bring their hands together, his left to Spock’s left so that their rings slide against each other.  “Mine.”

“And you are mine.”

“Always.”

“Beyond death, then.  _T’hy’la_.”  Spock shifts until his free hand can ghost against Jim’s temple.  “Let me.”

“Yes.  Please, yes.”  Jim clings tighter.  “Always,” he says again, and then Spock’s mind is sliding into his.

There are words, and Jim knows that he is speaking some of them.  They’re unimportant.  What matters, _all_ that matters, is the way their thoughts are mingling, merging, and there is no Jim, no Spock, no _I_.  Only them, only _us_ , forever and always.


End file.
